Author's Note: Amy has my undying gratitude for pushing me to 'tighten things up'. This story would not be here without her.

Dean
pushed open the bar's swinging glass door and stepped over the
threshold, ignoring his brother's grunt and muttered curse as the
door swung back and caught him unprepared.

"Look
alive, Sammy," Dean said, never breaking his stride. He was
headed straight for the bar- and more importantly- the
magazine-worthy barmaid behind it.

Sam
followed suit, grumbling something about common manners.

Dean
approached the bar stool and slid onto it hips first, setting his
elbows on the polished wood and giving the brunette his most charming
smile. "Hi there," he beamed as Sam appeared next to him,
rubbing his forehead. Dean ignored him, looking the barmaid over
appreciatively. "Hey there… I'm new in this town. Do you think
I could have directions to your house?"

Next
to him, Sam groaned.

The
barmaid grinned shyly, ducking her head as she tucked a lock of hair
behind her pierced ear. When she looked back up, Dean waited
hopefully.

"What'll
it be, hot stuff?" she asked, looking him in the eyes in a way
that told Dean he didn't have a chance.

He
sighed, letting his shoulders slump a bit as he eyed the tri-fold
menu next to the ash tray. "Just gimme a cheeseburger and
fries," he said, then jerked his thumb in Sam's direction. "And
whatever he wants."

"And
to drink?"

"Budweiser.
Bottle."

She
nodded and turned to Sam, and a shy, flirty smile lit her face.
Disgusted, Dean eyed the other patrons as Sam ordered.

It
was a Thursday night and Oroville was a small town. There were
roughly thirty other people in the bar, most of them men and most of
them alone. Dire Straits provided background music and Dean
subconsciously began bouncing his leg in rhythm to the beat. An empty
stage sat in the corner, a lone microphone near the edge.

Yeah,
he picked a booming place alright.

Dean
flashed a disarming smile at the man next to him before turning his
attention back on Sam. "Great place you picked out. I especially
like the jackalope on the wall over there." Dean pointed at the
stuffed and mounted creature but Sam didn't break eye contact.

"Me?
You're the one who wanted to stop here. I said I was fine."

A
beer bottle was set down before him and he immediately wrapped his
hand around it, his hot palm forming condensation against the cold
glass. He took a long pull, welcoming the signature taste, then set
the bottle on the bar and belched against his fist. "Yeah, well
I was tired of listening to your stomach rumble. You sound like
freakin' Chewbacca sometimes, you know it?"

Sam
shook his head looked away, taking a drink from his own bottle.
"We're only two hours from Almont. I don't know why we couldn't
keep going."

"Because
for one, I'm hungry," Dean started, grinning to himself as he
heard the familiar opening notes of 'Sweet Home Alabama'. "And
two- that ghost has been there for over a hundred years. One more
night isn't going to hurt anything."

"We
could've scoped the place out. Done some research."

"
'Scoped the place out'?" Dean mocked. "Who are you, the
secret service? It's a haunted house, Sam. Same as all the others.
Broken windows, squeaky floorboards, unearthly spirits." Dean
shook his head and took another drink. "And what kind of
research are you going to find at 12:30 in the morning?"

Sam
tilted his bottle, watching as the bottom edge made tracks through
the puddle of condensation on the bar. "Keep your voice down,"
he mumbled, glancing at Dean nervously with a quick eyebrow-gesture.

Dean
turned to his right and found the stranger next to him staring
openly. He raised one hand from its position around the bottleneck
and lifted his chin. "Hey there."

The
man continued to stare.

Dean
shifted a little, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. "Nice
night?" Where was the barmaid with the food?

"You
boys talking about the Silas Creek ghost?"

The
stranger's voice was rough and deep, and he spoke without moving his
lips. "Uh, yeah," Dean replied, noticing the deep wrinkles
in the man's tan face. "You know anything about it?"

"I
know enough to stay the hell away from that place," the man
said. "You'd be smart to do the same."

Dean
looked at his bottle with a cocky smirk, then tried to hide it before
looking back to the man. "Okay, yeah. Thanks for the advice."

"Dean,"
Sam admonished, shooting an apologetic puppy-dog look to the
stranger. "Can you tell us a little about the ghost?" he
asked over Dean's head.

The
man settled himself upon his barstool as the barmaid handed them each
new bottles, sans the caps. "I can tell you a lot about that
ghost," the man replied. "Jeremiah was friends with my Pa.
I heard plenty of stories about the two of 'em growing up."

"Really?
Like what?"

Sam
was turning on the charm and Dean shook his head, focusing on the
steaming cheeseburger that had been set down before him. His mouth
began to water even before his fingertips sunk into the warm, soft
bun. The salty smell of hot, greasy ground beef filled the air and
his stomach rumbled. Unable to resist the sandwich of lettuce,
tomato, ketchup, mustard, pickles, onion, orange processed cheese and
grilled meat, Dean took a bite and nearly fell off the barstool in
ecstasy. Good God- a cheeseburger this good had to be laced with
poison or crack or something. He'd traveled all over the
country- it just wasn't possible. No way was a cheeseburger this
perfect.

Next
he tried a fry- and nearly dropped the burger as another wave of
pleasure swept over him. "Holy shit," he mumbled through a
mouth full of deep-fried potato, stuffing more fries into his mouth.
They were hot and crispy, seasoned and salted, and still glistening
with grease. The insides soft, just like he loved. Dean's hand moved
on automatic, alternating between stuffing his mouth with burger and
fries. Only when his esophagus became clogged did he pause for a long
pull of beer. Then he began clogging it some more.

"So
why you wanna know all this stuff about Jeremiah, anyway?"

The
stranger's voice cut through Dean's cloud of oblivion and he paused,
giving the bite of cheeseburger one final chew before swallowing. He
looked up. "What?"

The
stranger looked Dean in the eyes. "You seem to be awful curious
about a dead man, that's all."

Dean
ran his tongue across his teeth and glanced at Sam. Apparently, he
had missed an entire conversation. Just what the hell had Sam been
talking about? He decided to play it safe. "We're gathering
information for our book," he lied, watching as the stranger's
fingers froze in the air over his quarter-full tumbler.

What,
was this old guy challenging him? Affronted, Dean straightened on the
stool, and looked the stranger in the eyes. "A horror novel.
It's a series." Damnit, if he said he was an author, then by
God, he was an author. He could always bullshit his way through the
details. Beside him, the barmaid returned with two new, dripping beer
bottles and traded them for the empty ones.

"You're
an author?" the barmaid asked. She eyed Dean carefully, with a
warmness that wasn't there before. "You don't look like the
author type," she challenged.

Sam
ducked his head, picking at his fries as Dean said, "Honey, I'm
whatever type you want me to be." He smiled expectantly.

Her
disgust was eclipsed by her interest and she stuck out her hand. "I'm
Brandy," she said, her fingers warm and soft in Dean's hand,
"Nice to meet you…"

"Dean,"
he replied. "Dean King."

Sam
started choking and reached for his beer.

Dean
was still gazing into her eyes when the stranger interrupted. "So
your books are about ghosts?" he asked, his fingers playing over
the lip of the glass before him.

Dean
raised an eyebrow. "Well Tom, as a matter of fact, our books are
about more than just ghosts." He grabbed the beer bottle, which
was sitting dangerously close to Brandy's chest, and pulled it
closer. "We like to mix it up. You know, demons, poltergeists,
shape-shifters…"

Behind
him, Sam growled a warning.

Tom's
gray eyes lost some of their iciness. "A shape-shifter?"

Dean
took a drink, the rest of his cheeseburger forgotten. "Yeah,
they shed their skin so they can look like whoever they want to. You
could be one, for all I know." He shrugged nonchalantly. Tom's
eyes grew bigger.

"So
is your main character this big, burly guy with long hair and a hat?"
Brandy asked, leaning forward on the bar. Her breasts were
dangerously close to spilling over her low-cut shirt and Dean stared.
"Does he wear a trench coat and carry silver bullets?"

A
bony elbow in his ribs alerted Dean that his mouth was open. He
closed it quickly, teeth clacking together. "Uh," he
started, glaring at Sam, "No. There's two main characters,
actually. They're brothers."

Next
to him, Sam's eyebrows rose.

"Brothers?"
Brandy purred. "What are their names?"

A
million names went through his mind. Burke and Hare. Butch and
Sundance. Starsky and Hutch. Holmes and Watson. Mulder and Scully.
"Uh… Frank…" Dean glanced at Sam, whose eyebrows were
up in anticipation, "And Joe."

"So
how do they kill all these things?" Tom asked. "With wooden
stakes and silver bullets?"

Dean
finished off his third beer and picked up a French fry. "Well,
yeah, sometimes," he said. "It depends on what it is
they're killing."

Sam
threw half a fry onto his plate and Brandy turned to him. "So
what do you do, sweetie? Are you an author too?"

Dean
watched as Sam blinked, startled by the sudden attention. "Uh,
yeah. I help out. Actually, I do most of the research." He
glared at Dean.

"And
this is research?" she asked. "Sitting in a bar, chatting
up the locals? Listening to ghost stories?"

"Tell
me about one of your stories," Tom said. He looked at Dean
expectantly.

Dean
watched Brandy move off to serve a patron at the other end of the
bar, admiring the view. "You want a story?" He blinked,
looking at Sam. "What do you think, Sam? Which one should we
tell old Tom here?"

"I
don't-"

"I
got it! How about the one where Frank and Joe go up against Bloody
Mary?"

"Bloody
Mary?" Tom echoed. "I thought that was an urban legend."

Dean
shook his head. "Far from it. You see, Frank and Joe discover
that people are dying after they've looked into a mirror and said
Bloody Mary three times. So they go to investigate and find out that
basically, the dead people's eyes have exploded, like a major brain
meltdown. It's pretty gross."

Brandy
returned with new bottles and topped off Tom's whiskey, of which he
promptly took a sip. "So how do they kill a girl that lives in a
mirror?"

"Well
Joe- that's the geeky little sidekick brother- he does some digging
around and finds out that Mary really only lives in one mirror. Her
soul was trapped in it when she died. But she can transport herself
to any other mirror."

"Wait
a minute," Brandy interrupted, crossing her arms over the bar
and leaning forward. "Mirrors? Mary? Are you talking about
Bloody Mary? Isn't that just a story?"

Sam
smiled into his near-empty plate and Dean fought back a grin of his
own. Brandy looked somewhat affronted. "Anyway, Joe finds out
where the original mirror is being kept and they break in. They've
got to lure Mary back to her own mirror and when she appears, they
have to smash it before she can kill them."

Dean
jumped back into the conversation. "For some hair-brained reason
that is totally not right, Joe thinks he's responsible for
his girlfriend's death." It was blunt, Dean knew it, but the
fact that they'd talked about it many times before took the sting out
of the words. He looked Sam in the eyes, conveying his empathy while
challenging Sam to argue. Before Tom could ask how Jessica
died, Dean continued, "Apparently, just feeling guilty is enough
for Mary."

"So
what happened?" Brandy asked. Her eyes sparkled in the dim
lighting and Dean unconsciously licked his lips.

"While
Joe was trying to lure out Mary, the cops showed up. So Frank heads
outside to keep them busy. They tried to arrest him, so he ends up
knocking them both out- two against one." He leaned closer to
Brandy, or more importantly, her breasts, and said, "Frank is
the cooler, older brother. He's strong and has a lot of really cool
weapons."

"Weapons?"
she purred.

"Yeah.
Guns- lots of guns. Knives, swords… you name it." Dean lowered
his voice. He was so close he could smell her perfume. "He's
also really good in bed."

"Yeah,
well while Frank is outside being a Neanderthal, Joe is
facing off with Mary." Sam was speaking to Tom, garnering the
man's full attention. He shot a glare at Dean.

"Yeah,
but then Frank had to show up and save your ass," Dean retorted,
only realizing his slip when Sam's eyes widened. He glanced at Brandy
and Tom; neither appeared to have noticed. "If I remember
correctly, Joe was getting his eyeballs melted when Frank showed up."

"So
how did they kill her?" Tom asked.

"Mary
was advancing on them both and they were losing strength," Dean
elaborated just to see the gleam in Brandy's eyes, "Then at the
last minute, Frank holds up a mirror. When Mary sees herself, she
disintegrates right in front of them. Pretty cool."

Tom
exhaled and leaned back, grabbing his tumbler and downing the last of
his whiskey. "That's some story," he said. "How many
books you got out?"

Dean
shrugged and picked up a cold fry. "A few. They're not real
popular yet."

"Well
I know what the problem is," Brandy said, refilling Tom's glass.
"There's not enough danger- pain… close calls. You're guys-
you wouldn't understand. Women like to read about the hero being in
danger, bleeding a little before he triumphs." She gathered the
brother's empty plates and paused. "You gotta rough 'em up a
little."

Dean
snorted. "Rough 'em up?" he repeated. "Those guys get
knocked around all the time! You think it's fun to have the crap beat
out of you by some pissed off spirit?" He huffed. "Add more
danger. You're crazy."

Brandy
smiled. "Just try it. I think you'll be surprised." With
that, she winked at Dean then carried the plates to the back.

Dean
looked at Sam. "Don't even think about it," he jabbed a
finger at Sam's chest. "I've sewn your ass up enough for this
lifetime, you hear me?" He let his hand fall, shaking his head.
"I should have you wrapped up in bubble wrap. Maybe get you a
helmet, too. Call you Special Sammy."

Sam
growled. "Where are the keys? I'm gonna wait in the car."

"Oh
Sammy- don't be like that," Dean said. "Relax, will ya?
Just enjoy the atmosphere. Have another beer."

"So
your good guys aren't really so good, are they?" Tom asked.
"What, with all the lying and cheating and such."

"They
only do it to get by," Dean replied. "They take what they
need to survive and move on. It's not like those credit card
companies can't afford it."

"Why
don't they just charge people to get rid of the ghosts?"

Dean
paused, trying to come up with an easy answer.

He
turned to Sam.

"Because,"
Sam started, glaring at Dean like what he was about to say next was
the most obvious thing in the world, "That wouldn't be right.
Joe and Frank… they want to help people. They've had pretty dark
lives themselves… they know how bad things can happen to good
people. Life's not fair." Sam shrugged, his shoulders rising and
falling as he studied a point on the opposite wall. "They feel
that if they help other people, some justice will be brought to their
own lives."

Not
liking the proverbial storm gathering above Sam's head, Dean
interrupted. The conversation was straying too close to reality. "You
know, like the credit card commercial. Ridding the world of evil,
priceless."

Tom
laughed. "Well hell, boy- I'm an exterminator! I charge fifty
bucks an hour to help rid the world of evil!"

Sam
rolled his eyes and sulked silently while Dean laughed with Tom.
"Yeah?" Dean asked, getting his breathing under control,
"What's the worst job you ever had to do?" Brandy returned
with fresh beers and Dean smiled at her.

She
blushed.

"Well there was one time, back in '91,"
Tom started, his eyes losing focus. "There was a church full of
termites-"

"Oh
Tom," Brandy interrupted. "Don't bore these boys with your
stories. Leave the story telling to the professionals."

Tom
ducked his head in obvious embarrassment and Dean's opinion of the barmaid dropped a few
points. "Actually-"

"Come on, tell
us another story," Brandy purred, leaning over the bar again and
exposing a good portion of her breasts.

"We
really should get going," Sam said, pulling Dean away from a
testosterone-driven trance. "It's late and we've got a lot of work to do tomorrow."

Brandy
pouted, sticking out her bottom lip. "Don't go."

Dean
was barely aware of Sam jumping to his feet. "We really should."
He watched as Brandy worried her lip with her teeth. Maybe they could
stay just a little while longer-

"Come
on Dean," Sam ordered, jerking on the elbow of Dean's sleeve
with enough force to knock him off balance. "Let's go."

Dean
tried not to look embarrassed as he caught his balance. He fished out
his wallet grumbling, "Yeah, yeah. Sammy, all work and no play
makes you an ass, you know that?"

Sam
was ignoring him. "Thank you for the information, Tom," he
said, shaking the old man's hand. "You've been a big help."

"Maybe
you can give me a part in one of your books?" he asked, hope
shining in his weathered eyes.

Dean
threw down their last twenty dollar bill as Tom smiled. "Thanks!
Wait till I tell my grandchildren that their grandpa is going to be
in a best-selling novel!"

Sam
eye's grew large and dark and Dean recognized the all-too-familiar
signs of Sam berating himself. Dean grabbed him before he could ruin
their cover and turned him towards the door. "Come on Sam, say
goodnight. We got enough material to last us a while." Brandy
slid the receipt across the bar and he grabbed it out of reflex,
stuffing it into his pocket behind his wallet.

He
turned back to say goodnight to Brandy. Parts of him wished he didn't
have to.

"You
boys don't be strangers," she winked. Then she brought her hand
to the side of her face, her thumb and pinky finger extended, and
mouthed, 'Call me.'

Confused,
Dean gave an awkward smile before turning and herding his brother
towards the door.

Outside,
the lack of noise rung loudly in Dean's ears. The clean, cool night
air sent a shiver down Dean's spine and he balled his fists. He
breathed deeply, reveling in the bite of chilled lungs, then looked
at the back of Sam's head. Dad would have a fit if he knew how long
Sam's hair had grown. "You okay?" he asked. "You
turned a little green back there."

Sam
didn't stop his trek towards the Impala. "I'm just tired, Dean."

"Dude,
it's almost 2 am. Everyone is tired."

Sam
stopped and spun towards Dean.

Uh-oh.

"I'm
tired of all the lies, Dean," Sam started, turning his
just-kicked-puppy gaze on Dean. "Did you see that old man's
face? He believed us! He gave us what we wanted and we didn't give
him anything in return."

Dean
held his ground. "He didn't tell us anything we couldn't have
found out ourselves."

"It's
the thought that counts, Dean," Sam sighed. "How do you
think he's gonna feel when he realizes there are no books? What's he
going to tell his grandchildren then?"

Dean
looked at Sam. Why didn't Sam understand? They'd been creating covers
like this their whole lives, why was lying to an old man in a bar any
different? "What do you want me to do about it, Sam? I failed
grammar class, remember? I can't just pull a book out of my ass."

Sam
turned away in frustration. "Just forget it."

And
Dean did- he'd been effectively shut out. They began walking towards
the car again, this time in silence. He was sorry that he couldn't
help Sam feel better about what they had done, but that was life. It
was full of disappointment. He and Sam just did what had to be done.
Tom would get over his hurt feelings eventually. Life moved on.

As
they drew close to the car, Dean retrieved his keys from his pocket,
stopping when a slip of paper fell to the ground. He plucked it from
the gravel and was about to crumble it up when he recognized
handwriting.

Across
the bottom of the receipt, in big loopy handwriting, Brandy had
scribbled her phone number.

With
a predatory grin, Dean folded the paper and put it back in his
pocket.

Instantly
in a better mood, Dean stepped back as the driver's door creaked open.
He got in and glanced at Sam as he pulled the door shut. "Don't worry
Sammy, you can make it up to him next time."

Sam's face remained stony as one eyebrow raised. "Next time?"

"Yeah, next time." Dean started the Impala. "This place has the best
damn cheeseburgers I've ever eaten. We are definitely coming back."

Sam rolled his eyes as they pulled out of the parking lot. "It was just a cheeseburger."

"Dude, it was not. It was awesome. Better-than-sex awesome."

Sam turned his head towards the door and mumbled, "I'm sure any cheeseburger is better than you."

"What?" Dean snapped. "What the hell did you just say?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing my ass. You just volunteered to shower second, little brother.
And guess what? I'm gonna make sure it smells real nice in there for
ya."

Sam shuddered. "You're such a jerk, you know that?"

"Only for you, bitch. Only for you."

END

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